We left staid Bourges behind and made our way south, the train continued lush, with farmland rolling over hills. Ira tells the story of some Brit parachuting into France during WWII and landing in the middle of Longchamps racetrack at midnight. "I'd heard France was a garden, but this was a fucking lawn," was his quote on landing in the center grass. Well, France is definitely rich soil, and it's no wonder its farms have such a hold in their national imagination. Now and again, you'd see a stately chateau rise from fields, one even with peaked towers and crenellations like a medieval drawing.
The terrain started to change from rolling hills to rockier rises and bluffs and even some mesas, as dark farmland turned dryer. We saw an aire that advertised a view, so we took it. An aire is simply a rest stop; stops that range from parking and a pissoir to gas stations and restaurants. This one had a marvelous view of our first bridge, the unknown to us, the Viaduc Garabit, constructed by Eiffel in 1884, five years before he built his famous tower up north.
It's a glorious construction and was the proving ground for many of the innovations he included in Paris. There's a similar bridge in Portugal that was the model for this one. Like most geniuses, Gustave had to prove himself in foreign lands before making it in the big city. We admired its span and glorious color (added in 1992). There was a restaurant there and we had a surprisingly good meal, me the hamburger frites combo that was perfect, and Ira the plate of charcuterie, also a winner. It helps to speak French, because the woman was not a fan of the Germans miming their order for her, so she fell on my faulty French with tears of joy and actually gave us a free bottle of Pelligrino.
Continuing on, the land got recognizably more Mediterranean. By now it was commonplace to see gorges and cliffs and pine trees. I got the first glimpse of the Viaduc Millau, a literally glittering span of white. (The "glitter" coming from the aviation safety lights on top of each tower.) By the time we pulled into the aire with the views if the viaduct, it dominated the horizon. I climbed to the top of the hill to capture some more pictures.
Next we drove across it and it was literally thrilling. The oh-my-god of crossing that enormous space in such a fine, stripped down span was breathtaking. Millau is actually on the north side of the span, but we had to cross it. We took one of the next exits and drive back down to Millau across the valley, down the old highway that was the cause of many a backup in the old day. Before we went far, we noticed another sign for a viewpoint if the he bridge, so we took this narrow country lane towards it. The first thing if interest we found was an old farmhouse with a roof made of stones. There was an old farmhouse across the road that looked positively modern, and a new barn that was downright space age. At the viewpoint were signs for an aterrissage, and it was clear what that word meant when we say the parasails flying overhead. It was glorious to see them wheeling about in the sky. The real raptors soared just above them, no doubt as an Icarusean lesson to gravity-prone humans.
We got out to get a closer look at the people launching and landing and it was astounding how casual it was. We watched one guy walk up with a large backpack. It took him ten minutes to set up and buckle himself in then unfurl his sail and casually step off into the heavens. We watched the people and they looked like adventure sports types the world over, rangy and young and enthusiastic. Dreads are a common look for blond French people. At least, I haven't seen a set of dreads that weren't blond in this trip.
There were a lot of tandem riders, with French guy guides and German girl riders. They were all thrilled to be doing this and I heard screams of delighted laughter from the skies, particularly when they would whip around and the riders would go careening from side to side.
We found our hotel with little effort and we're marshaling our strength to walk into town for a simple dinner.
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